


Cold Turkey

by DelightfulExcess (SevereStorms)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil is Human, Chubby Kink, Chubby!Cecil, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, M/M, Masturbation in Bathroom, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, POV Carlos, Sexual Content, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/DelightfulExcess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil quits smoking and starts to gain weight; Carlos is driven to distraction by his increasingly round and adorable belly. That's the whole story, folks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Turkey

When he first sees Cecil at the opera after-party, Carlos is too overjoyed to care about anything but the fact that Cecil, his Cecil, is here, alive and well and in his arms. He barely has time to take in the dazzling outfit his boyfriend is wearing, much less assess his appearance in any meaningful way. But as they walk home together, as his eyes return over and over to Cecil’s beloved form, he does think he looks a little different somehow, though he can’t quite figure out what has changed.

As soon as they step inside their apartment, Carlos pulls Cecil into his arms, his hands sliding around Cecil’s waist. But Cecil doesn’t respond quite the way he expects; he squirms in his arms, pushing away, and Carlos steps back, perplexed.

“What is it?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Cecil says, taking Carlos’s hands in his and repositioning them on his shoulders. “There.” 

Carlos accepts the minor adjustment and kisses Cecil again, a little harder, a little deeper. “You _taste_ different.”

“Better, or worse?” Cecil asks, a little nervously.

“Better, I think. Pretty wonderful, actually,” Carlos says, burying his face against Cecil’s neck. He inhales, detects salt, sweat, the familiar undercurrent of Cecil himself, and something else, something herbal and spicy, maybe the soap Cecil uses - which is strange; he usually can't really smell that. He covers Cecil’s lips again, stroking into his mouth with his tongue. Cecil makes a hoarse sound in the back of his throat, but he stops squirming and goes loose in Carlos’s arms, and Carlos forgets himself for almost a full minute, lost in his own physical response.

And as soon as he stops thinking about it, he finally cottons on. What’s missing, he realizes, is the acrid funk of cigarette smoke. He pulls back again, breathing hard.

“You quit smoking?”

A flustered smile; Cecil’s still recovering from that last plundering kiss. “I’m trying. It was going to be a surprise, when I got to the desert otherworld.”

“That’s great!” Carlos squeezes his arms, delighted. “How'd you do it?”

“With extreme difficulty,” Cecil says. “I started trying before I even came to visit you. I tried drinking to forget, but honestly? That doesn’t work as well as the public service pamphlets they drop all over town every Tuesday suggest.”

“I always wondered about that,” Carlos says.

“So, then I tried lozenges, targeted trance-inducing chants, nicotine-infused socks and pretty much everything else they had at the pharmacy. Finally...I just went cold turkey. I’m still eating everything in sight, I must have gained fifteen pounds,” His hand goes unconsciously to his middle. “But.... it’s getting a little easier.”

And that’s the other difference, the slight weight gain. Not a lot, but enough that Carlos can see it, now that he’s looking. His face is just a bit fuller, his ass a touch curvier, his stomach ever-so-slightly rounded. 

Cecil looks uncomfortable under Carlos’s scrutiny. “You always said smoking was way worse than a little extra weight,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself.

“It is, for sure. And - god, Cecil - I know how difficult it must be. Thank you. _Thank you._ ” He pulls him close, cups his face in one hand, leaning forward to kiss him again, but Cecil pulls away, places his hands flat on Carlos's chest. It’s definitely a move designed to cool things down. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, abashed. “Could we maybe just…take it slow, for now? I just don’t feel like myself, not yet. And they say...well, to avoid situations that might trigger the urge to smoke. And afterward...it might be more than I can resist.” he shrugs, the implication finally getting through to Carlos. 

Cecil always smoked after sex, always reaching for the pack on the bedside table midway through the afterglow. “Are you sure? You couldn’t...I don't know, chew gum or something? I don't mean to pressure you, it's fine, it's just...it's been a while."

“I can’t even think about it without wanting to smoke,” Cecil said. “I just don’t think I can, not yet.” He chews his lower lip and looks miserable.

Carlos kisses him chastely on the cheek. “Of course,” he says, hoping his voice won’t give away his disappointment, “Whatever you want.” His heart sinks, but he knows it will be worth it if Cecil finally kicks his smoking habit.

“It isn’t that I don’t want to,” Cecil says, taking Carlos’s hand and squeezing it. “In fact - I mean, maybe I could get back on the wagon tomorrow if you really want to…” his eyes rake Carlos in a sensuous up and down motion, and Carlos hesitates, wanting him, but not wanting to sabotage his efforts.

“No, Cecil, don’t worry about it. It’s completely okay,” he says, before he can change his mind.

And it _is_ okay, of course it is, but it isn’t _easy,_ not by a long chalk. 

____________________________

 

Cecil wasn’t kidding about eating everything in sight, Carlos soon learns, but what he didn’t mention was just how much food he makes sure to keep in view at all times. He keeps dishes of candy in his office at home as well as at his desk at work, snacks in dishes on the coffee table, granola bars in the car. He always seems to be eating something, but he’s not smoking, so Carlos doesn’t complain.

Not that he _wants_ to complain.

Maybe it’s because food was somewhat scarce in the desert otherworld, or maybe it’s just because sex is off the table, but watching Cecil eat just about anything has become the single most erotic thing in Carlos’s life. And Cecil is still eating almost constantly; sucking on cactus pastilles while he checks his email, absently nibbling wheatless crumpets slathered in periwinkle marmalade over the course of a leisurely breakfast, popping nutmegs into his mouth while they watch TV at night. And all the while Carlos watches, watches Cecil’s mouth, his lips, his tongue, and all the while his want builds and builds until he doesn’t think it’s possible for him to want anything more than he wants Cecil.

Cecil’s belly is rounder now, softer, pushing out the fabric of his shirts, expanding gently over the tops of his trousers. One night after dinner, Cecil leans back in his chair with a section of newspaper and slides his thumb along the the waistband of his pants, pushing it down so his belly can settle against it a little more comfortably, and Carlos feels a jolt of lust so sudden and unexpected, he drops the plate he’s washing.

As Cecil turns the page, his slightly too small shirt rides up a little on his belly. Carlos gets a glimpse of bare, smooth skin, the faint shadow of belly button, the little dusting of hair that traces a line from his navel down to the top of his fly, and imagines undoing one button at a time, letting the generous swell of belly expand outward, until the last button was undone, and then...

 _No, no, no,_ Carlos tells himself, staring down at the soapy dishwater.  


But he can't deny it; he yearns to touch Cecil. To wrap his arms around him and feel that little extra give, to see what it’s like when their bodies are pressed together, to kiss his way down the plump round lower curve of his belly and see what it feels like under his lips. He just looks so good like this, softer and easier, the pretty convex arc of his tummy begging to be touched and caressed and kissed. He knows Cecil, knows what he likes, and he’s sure he could talk him into it if he really wanted to. He could kiss and cajole and tease until Cecil was warm and wanting in his arms, skin flushed, heart pounding, and then he wouldn’t be able to say no, wouldn’t want Carlos to stop. And then, if he still can’t get his mind off cigarettes at the end, Carlos could probably come up with a way to distract him...

But no. He closes his eyes and promises himself that he’s _not_ going to push. It’s Cecil’s decision to make, and he’s going to give him the space he needs to make it. 

“You okay?” Cecil asks, and Carlos opens his eyes and smiles. 

“Sure, sweetie, fine,” he says, inhaling a shaky breath. He dries his hands and sits down at the table, picks up another section of the newspaper. He stares at it, but the words seem to run together, to pulse in time with Carlos’s heartbeat. His mind is full of Cecil, obsessing over every new curve and hint of softness.

And he can't help it; he thinks it would be better if Cecil got even softer.

______________________________

 

Carlos regrets his choice of the Moonlite All-Nite Diner as soon as they walk in. He’s forgotten that it’s the only restaurant in town that still has a smoking section.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks, before the hostess arrives to seat them. “I forgot about the smoking section.”

“No, it’s fine,” Cecil says, although he’s gazing longingly at a group of men in dark suits. They’re drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, a blue fog of smoke hovering above their table like a fragrant thundercloud. 

The hostess shows them to a table and Cecil slides into the booth, tugging the waistband of his ever-tightening pants down toward his hips in an attempt to get comfortable. He stares at the menu for a long while, and Carlos does too, wondering what his boyfriend might order. He’s actually looking forward to watching Cecil eat, which makes him feel ridiculous, but he just can’t help it. Carlos can see it as if it’s happening right in front of him, Cecil licking food off the fork, making small noises of pleasure as he eats, noises like the ones he used to make when…

“What’ll it be?” the waitress asks, startling Carlos out of his reverie. Thank god, because he doesn’t know what he was just thinking. He’s just… it’s been so long. It’s natural that he’s feeling a little… 

“Can I take your order?” the waitress repeats, hip cocked, glaring impatiently back and forth between the two of them.

Cecil, Carlos realizes, isn’t staring at his menu at all. He’s staring _over_ it, at the men in dark suits, biting his lip. Carlos looks over at them too, and sees what it is that has captured Cecil’s attention. One of the men is rolling his own cigarette, the paper laid out on the table as he taps tobacco into it, lifting it carefully and licking the edge in a single wet stroke, rolling it up and leaning down to light it, inhaling a deep lungful of smoke. It’s practically cigarette porn. Cecil lets out a faint whimper.

“Holler if you ever decide to order,” the waitress says, turning to go.

“Wait,” Cecil says, eyes snapping back into focus. “I think I’m ready.”

He orders an extravagant late-night breakfast of waffles and red flannel hash, and the sight of him eating it is almost too much for Carlos to take. He steers his eyes to his own plate, struggling not to watch, not to obsess over Cecil while he’s crunching into a bite of waffle, white teeth flashing, or licking syrup off the tines of the fork. He forces himself to keep his eyes on his own meal, even though he barely tastes it. He’s doing fine, mostly, until the waitress stops by to ask if they’d like dessert.

“What’s good?” Cecil asks.

“There’s peach pie,” The waitress says. “The peaches are local – from John Peters, you know, the farmer?”

"Oh," Cecil looks like he’s struggling with himself, but his eyes flick back to the men and their cigarettes and he asks, “Do you have it in invisible?”

“Sorry, hon,” The waitress says. “Visible only.” 

Cecil thinks it over, one hand gently patting the side of his belly, straining outward in its fullness. "I really shouldn't," he says. "But..." and of course he capitulates. He ends up eating two pieces, a la mode, and from his reaction, it must be really delicious. Carlos couldn’t say, even though he has a piece himself, because his every sense is focused on Cecil from the moment the waitress sets the plates on the table.

Cecil doesn’t even notice Carlos staring, he’s too intent on eating pie, tongue flicking out to lick ice cream from the corner of his mouth, lips closing slowly around the fork as his eyes flutter closed in pleasure, before he breaks into the tender crust, exposing the sweet, pink-gold interior. He pauses before the second piece is finished, resting a hand on his stomach as if he's not sure he can eat another bite, but then he plucks a sugary peach slice out of what’s left of the pie and, _Oh sweet unmerciful heavens_ , slides it into his mouth, licking juice from his finger, moaning in a way that has Carlos –

Oh, _shit._

Carlos reaches casually for his jacket, drapes it over his lap, and starts mentally reciting the periodic table, trying to make his sudden, ferocious hard-on go away.

Cecil lets out another little moan of contentment as he rests the fork on the edge of his plate and his hand on top of his belly. “God, that was amazing,” he murmurs, and Carlos digs the tines of his own fork into his hand. _Osmium, Iridium, Platinum, Gold, Mercury…_

Cecil leans back in the seat, and his tunic tugs tight across his stomach, creasing above and below, because although it used to fit him perfectly, it’s definitely too tight now. It has a tendency to ride up when Cecil’s not paying attention, emphasizing the ever-expanding curve of him. It’s impossible not to think about how easy it would be to reach underneath that tunic, to caress his rounded belly, feel it pushing its way over his waistband, soft and full and gorgeous and round and—

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Carlos says abruptly. He ignores Cecil’s surprised look as he shoves out of the booth and all but runs to the restroom.

He slams into the first stall, fumbling at his zipper, struggling to free himself and lock the door at the same time. His cock practically leaps out, hot and flushed and aching, and he spits into his palm, wraps his hand around himself and pumps, picturing the way Cecil’s tongue slid between his parted lips, the way he'd sucked on his fork, the way he’d slipped that golden curl of peach into his mouth, all of it going into his belly, _oh god_ his big, round, beautiful, _perfect_ -

Carlos comes with a hoarse cry, and with such force he has to hold onto the stall door to keep from collapsing to his knees. His heaving breaths echo in the small space, and as hard as he just came, he still feels the slight tingle of arousal, like he hasn’t quite burned it all off yet.

“What is the matter with me?” he whispers, as he slowly releases himself and gathers a handful of toilet paper to clean himself up. He loves Cecil, wants him to be happy, and he knows that Cecil isn’t especially happy right now. He should be finding some way to be more supportive, not jerking off like a teenager at the sight of –

No, better not think about that. He’s barely taken the edge off, he’d be ready to go another round in 3 seconds flat.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he mutters, as he puts his clothing to rights.

__________________________________________________

Carlos can tell Cecil is uncomfortable with the extra weight, can see the way he tugs at his clothes, the way his hands settle on his growing belly like he can’t quite believe it’s real. Carlos watches that belly under partially lowered lashes, feeling dirty but helpless against the force of his attraction. He loves it when Cecil fastens his seat belt, pulling the fabric of his shirts tight over the increasingly voluptuous curve. He loves the way clothes fit over it; the too-tight pull of fabric across the fullest, roundest part - or the way some of Cecil’s newer garments drape over it, never quite concealing the alluring shape. 

As much as he loves it, it seems clear that Cecil doesn’t. His self-consciousness manifests in dozens of little ways; the way he folds his arms around himself, the way he covers up with a hoodie or even a blanket when he sits on the sofa and his belly pushes out toward his lap, the way he tugs at the hems of his shirts when they start to ride up over the increasingly steep hill of his midsection. It makes Carlos feel awful. But every time he snuggles close to Cecil at night, wanting desperately to wrap his arms around his boyfriend and show him how very okay he is with Cecil’s burgeoning body, Cecil pushes him away, curling up into a ball on the far side of the bed.

“I’m still not ready,” he says, and Carlos can’t find a way of asking if this is all about his recent weight gain without making it sound like a problem.

And it _is_ a problem, just not in the way Cecil seems to think. It’s not easy to live in a state of unrelenting arousal, but Carlos is trying to get used to it.

One morning, he catches Cecil staring at the calendar affixed to the fridge with a Night Vale Scorpions magnet, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“What is it?” he asks. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Cecil says, and he steps back, one hand cradling his belly, an unconscious gesture Carlos finds heart-meltingly endearing. “Three months. I’ve made it three months.”

And although Carlos is thinking, _That means I have, too_ , he doesn’t let on. “That’s amazing. _You’re_ amazing. I’m so proud of you, honey.”

Cecil smiles at him, takes a step forward as if he were about to hug him, but then stops, catching himself, and Carlos’s heart lurches painfully. 

“Should we celebrate?” He asks, to cover the awkwardness. 

“That sounds nice,” Cecil says. “I think we should. White Sand?”

Carlos sees a vision in his mind of Cecil eating ice cream, licking and sucking each creamy scoop, biting into the crunchy cone, and he clenches his hands into fists, hopes Cecil doesn’t notice the flush of desire that he feels heating his cheeks. “Anything you want.”

It’s even better than Carlos imagined; so good, in fact, he has to slip off into the restroom before he even finishes his milkshake. He gasps Cecil’s name as he comes.

“I am so completely screwed,” he whispers afterward.  


___________________________________________________________

Carlos is in bed with a stack of back issues of _Scientific American,_ trying to distract himself while Cecil takes a shower. He's definitely _not_ thinking about Cecil in the shower, or drying himself off, or shaving (oh _god_ he's so cute when he's shaving) or any of the things he can hear through the bathroom wall. He keeps his eyes locked on an article about robotics, even though he isn’t absorbing any of it.

“Carlos? Can I ask you something?” Cecil asks from the bathroom door. 

“Sure,” Carlos says, setting his magazine down. He looks up and sees Cecil leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, looking impossibly appealing in pajama pants and an old Woody Guthrie t-shirt, a little bit of shaving cream he's missed flecking one cheek. The shirt pulls tight around his belly, which has become a real and proper paunch now, the full, heavy swell of it filling out everything Cecil wears in ways that Carlos finds unbelievably distracting.

Cecil bites his lip, looks around the room to avoid meeting Carlos’s eyes. “It’s just...oh, I don’t know how to ask this.” 

“What is it, Cecil? You can ask me anything, you know that.”

“Okay,” Cecil takes a deep breath. “I think I might be ready, now, to...you know. But…” his hands come to rest on the sides of his belly, and Carlos’s throat suddenly feels dry. “I’m worried you might not want me. Like this.”

“Might not…” Carlos’s mind is too scrambled for him to form a response. “Might not _want_ you?”

“I’ve gained weight,” Cecil says, uncomfortably, eyes downcast.

“No you haven’t,” Carlos says, then, immediately, “Not very much.”

Cecil stands up a little straighter, inhaling and then exhaling, letting his belly round out in front of him, and slides one hand underneath it, as if he were testing the weight of it. He tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow.

“Okay,” Carlos concedes, eyes widening as he takes in the entrancing sight. “Maybe… maybe a few pounds.” 

“More than a few,” Cecil says. “I think… I think it might be a _lot_ more. I mean, just look at me.” He holds his arms out, looking down at himself.

Carlos has been watching Cecil covertly for months now, and to have him standing still, inviting this scrutiny, is so arousing he thinks he might faint from the rush of blood away from his brain as he stands up and comes closer. Carlos forgets himself completely. He looks and looks, drinking in the sight, until slowly it becomes clear that the silence has gone on too long, that he's been staring for a little eternity. And just when Carlos is about to clear his throat and start murmuring reassurances, he notices something.

Cecil is turned on, unmistakably hard beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants.

Carlos drags his gaze up to Cecil’s face, eyes wide. Cecil is frozen, face flushed, breath coming just a little too fast.

“Cecil,” he says quietly, “Oh, Cecil, I-” 

“Oh, god,” Cecil says covering his face with his hands. “You think I’m disgusting.”

“No!” Carlos blurts out. “I think you look amazing. You look _incredible._ You have no idea - _no idea_ how hard it’s been to —” and he shuts his mouth, because Cecil is staring at him in astonishment, and Carlos realizes that if he keeps going, he might actually end up on his knees in front of Cecil, begging for sex. 

“Carlos?” Cecil says, letting his hands fall away from his face and really looking at his boyfriend. Carlos reaches out one trembling hand to touch Cecil, but then pulls it away, uncertain. Cecil’s worried that he’ll be disgusted, but _he’s_ the disgusting one, the one who can barely keep his eyes, mind, or hands off the fulsome curves of his boyfriend’s adorable belly. 

All of a sudden Cecil’s mouth is on his, soft and lush, and Carlos kisses him back, hands cradling Cecil’s face, and his lips part under Carlos’s, sucking Carlos’s tongue hungrily as he licks into his mouth, bodies flush together, the warm, pillowy softness of Cecil's belly contrasting with the hot hardness of his cock pressed against Carlos's leg, and Cecil lets out a moan that makes Carlos’s knees turn to water. Carlos slides his hands down Cecil's sides, giving his softening love handles an experimental sqeeze. 

“Wait,” Cecil gasps, pushing Carlos away, “Carlos, are you—”

“Do you,” Carlos pants, trying to resist the urge grab him and kiss him into submission, because if Cecil’s not okay with this, Carlos will stop, but it has to be now. “Do you want this?”

“I— _yes_ , I—” Cecil gropes for words at the same times as reaches for Carlos, closes one hand around the hard length of him through his boxers. Carlos gasps, almost buckles.

“Cecil—I’ve wanted you _so much_ —you have no idea how much I—but if you—” Carlos pauses, takes a deep breath. “Just tell me,” he says, “just tell me to stop and I’ll stop, I’ll—”

“Don’t stop,” Cecil whispers, and seals his mouth over Carlos’s again. 

Carlos doesn’t need to be told twice.

They collapse onto the bed together, licking and kissing whatever is nearby; mouths, ears, necks, chests, shoulders. Cecil tugs on Carlos’s t-shirt, and Carlos pulls it off, rolling to kick off his boxers.

“No,” Cecil says, voice low, placing one hand over Carlos’s. “Let me.”

Carlos holds his breath as Cecil frees his cock with a hum of satisfaction.

“Oh my,” Cecil says, pulling back to get a good look, and Carlos almost comes right there, just from the expression on Cecil’s face. Cecil pulls Carlos’s boxers off, runs his hands down Carlos’s body, settles on his hips. “My beautiful Carlos. I missed you so much.”

“Take your,” Carlos pants, hands waving weakly at Cecil’s shirt, “This, please, take it off.”

Cecil teases his fingers along the hem of his shirt, and suddenly looks unsure. “Maybe I could…” he says, and Carlos pulls him down, rolling to one side, and kisses him and kisses him until whatever he was going to say is lost. Then he scoots back, slips his hand underneath the shirt, and feels himself start to shiver with the effort of restraint.

He slides his hand upward a little more, following the soft swell. “This,” he says, “This has been driving me insane for the last three months. So… _soft_ ,” his voice almost breaks and he laughs at himself. “This beautiful shape, so perfect, Cecil, so round and perfect and… _oh,_ ” he runs out of words, so he just kisses his way from the roundest, fullest part of Cecil’s belly to the point where it meets the drawstring of the pajama pants. Carlos plucks the drawstring loose and slides his hand inside.

“You’re shaking,” Cecil says, eyes wide and shining in the dark.

“Of course I am. I’ve been fantasizing about this all day, every day, since I got back, I can’t - I can barely control myself.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Carlos grabs blindly for him, touches every inch he can get hold of, his beautifully shaped shoulders, the round, soft belly, the firm curve of his ass. His cock, flushed and proud and straining towards Carlos’s hands. Finally, _finally_ , he gets to touch wherever he wants, suck Cecil’s flesh into his mouth, taste him everywhere, so strong and so soft and so...so....

And suddenly Carlos can’t form coherent thoughts anymore, because Cecil is pushing him away, and kiss-swollen lips are closing around the head of his cock, that talented tongue running along the underside, Cecil taking him all down in a smooth motion – and Carlos thinks he might be crying, it’s so good.

Cecil licks him, sucks him, swallows him whole, making little groans of pleasure, like Carlos is the best thing he’s ever tasted, and just when Carlos doesn’t think he can take it anymore, just when he’s about to explode, Cecil takes his mouth away.

Carlos cries out, bereft. 

“It’s okay,” Cecil says. “Shh, come here,” and then Carlos feels something slick and wet push into his opening. Cecil’s finger, working him open, going all the way to the first knuckle. Carlos balls his hands into fists in the sheets, a low guttural sound coming unbidden from deep inside his chest.

“More?” Cecil asks.

“Please, Cecil, _please_ ,” Carlos says, and feels Cecil slip another finger inside of him, then, after Carlos moans and writhes in pleasure, another one. 

Cecil’s letting loose a steady stream of words, dirty and low, and Carlos cants his hips upwards to try and take him deeper.

“Okay,” Cecil says, and the fingers are gone and instead Cecil’s cock is nudging at Carlos’s opening, moving in slowly.

Carlos can’t help but gasp a little as he’s stretched out from the inside, and it burns, but it’s good, at last, to be so full, so full of Cecil. 

“Okay?” Cecil asks, short of breath now, as his belly nudges into Carlos.

“ _Oh - more!_ ” Carlos gasps, gives his hips a push, and Cecil starts up a steady rhythm, and Carlos matches him, thrusts up towards him and cries out as Cecil drives into him, Carlos’s cock trapped between their bodies, rubbing up against Cecil’s soft, round belly, and he has never felt anything so amazing in his life.

They’re both incoherent now, thrusting together and making desperate sounds of pleasure as they rush toward the climax. Cecil’s hands grip his hips, pulling him harder and faster, and he’s hitting so many good places inside Carlos, he can’t even think. 

Then Cecil gives a little gasp, his cock twitches, and Carlos’s body is rocked by an orgasm that comes on like a tidal wave, his vision going bright white, and he hears himself shout hoarsely as his body spasms and his back arches. He’s left drenched with sweat and panting, the aftershocks still sending tremors through him.

Cecil is draped over him, softening cock still inside, and he’s trembling, too, breath hot against Carlos’s skin.

He pulls out slowly, and Carlos tries not to whimper at the loss of Cecil inside his body. Cecil lies beside him, and Carlos rests a hand on Cecil’s belly, still heaving from his panting breaths. He expects Cecil to bat him away, but he doesn’t. Instead he covers Carlos’s hand with his own and smiles.

And Carlos would have sworn he was well and truly spent, but his cock stirs at the sight of their joined hands shaping that lovely curve.

“You weren’t kidding,” Cecil says, noting Carlos’s discomfiture. He sounds incredulous. “This really doesn’t bother you?” He presses their hands down into the plush softness of his belly.

“It _does_ bother me,” Carlos whispers, pulling Cecil closer and enfolding him in his arms. “It bothers me a lot. It bothers me all the time. I’ve never been so bothered by anything in my entire life.”

“I was so worried,” Cecil says. “I’m still worried, actually.”

“Why?”

“Well, I mean, I can’t just go on like this,” Cecil says. “The whole point of quitting smoking is to be healthier, and this,” he caresses his hands over his belly, bringing Carlos’s hands along for the ride, “It’s not really healthy, is it?”

“Mmmm,” is all Carlos can manage in response.

“You’re really not helping,” Cecil says, but he sounds pleased. “I _should_ probably try to lose some of this, though. It's...too much.”

“Of course if you want to lose weight, it’s fine with me,” Carlos says. “I love you, and it seems you'll always be attractive to me, no matter what size you are.” 

He strokes Cecil’s chest, his shoulders, then let his hands find their way back to the wonderful softness of his middle, and he catches his breath, groaning in the back of his throat. “I’m just saying...there’s no need to hurry on my account.”


End file.
